Blind Obsession (6 page)

My sensual exploration ended with my fingers gliding up between his brows, smoothing them across his forehead. His face had to be covered in paint by now, but he didn’t seem to care.

Feeling his breath whisper across my parted lips, I closed my eyes, letting my head fall back into the cradle of his hands.

Softly, I asked him, “What color eyes do you have?”

“Green,” he replied quickly. “Have you seen green before?”

“No,” I told him.

“Then, why ask?” he questioned curiously.

“Seemed like the right thing to do.” Before he could ask me anything else, I queried, “What color hair?”

“Brown.” He chuckled.

I felt him lower his head down until I could taste the breath he was breathing out. He was addictive. This feeling of intoxication was addictive.

“Do you see me?” he asked.

I rested my hands on his cheeks and opened my eyes.

It was an odd question to ask of a blind woman, but as I stared directly into what I now knew were his green eyes, I replied, “Yes, I see you perfectly.”

***

Day Four

Phillipe wasn’t able to go back to see Gemma last night, and now, it’s morning.

He knows what part she has been reading, and no matter what he agreed to, he cannot subject himself to the fucking heartache that would come from remembering that first meeting with Chantel.

Christ
, he thinks as he stares at the ceiling. Just thinking about Chantel and the day she painted him has his cock hard enough to drill holes.

Sighing, he rolls over to stare out the window opposite his bed. His room is situated on the first floor of the chateau, and he always sleeps with the shutters open at this time of the year. This morning, the sun is shining down over his vineyard, spilling into his room.

Reaching under the covers, he smoothes his palm against his erection. Groaning softly, he rolls to his back and closes his eyes. Bringing his hand up, he spits into his palm and curses himself as he shoves it back down between his thighs. Gripping his cock in his fist, he squeezes it tightly and tries to dampen the desire that’s bubbling up inside him.

Damn her. Chantel
still
had a way of crawling inside of him.

He isn’t sure if it’s the topics they are discussing or the lingering shadow he constantly sees out of the corner of his eye, but whenever Gemma gets too close to a shared intimacy of his and Chantel’s, Phillipe finds himself getting antsy, and his cock starts to twitch, just as it is doing now.

Flinging back the covers, he looks down his body that is now mottled with the light of the sun. He watches his own fist as he pulls on his now straining hard flesh. Closing his eyes, his free hand reaches back over his head and clutches the bottom of his headboard.

He feels his whole body grow taut. His muscles strain as he strokes his hard on with his fist once again, moving up and down the angry flesh that is now throbbing with insistence between his thighs.

Squeezing his eyes tight, he pictures Chantel standing in his studio.

***

The sun streamed through the open window as she slowly unbuttoned the bright yellow dress she’d worn to see him the first time he painted her.

Her hair was down, spilling over her shoulders. She captured her bottom lip between her teeth and worried it as she concentrated.

“Just act as if you are alone,” he told her.

Her eyes rose to his. “Like close-my-eyes-and-pretend-you-aren’t-here kind of thing?” she asked with a twitch to her lips.

***

Phillipe starts to stroke harder, recalling that first moment of revelation. She watched him with every button she undid. There were twelve—twelve black round buttons. Every time she undid one, Phillipe’s heart hammered faster, just as it is doing now.

Raising his right leg, he places his foot on the mattress, lifting his hips into each stroke. Groaning softly, his lips part as he holds on to the headboard again, tighter this time.

Why can’t I find release from this world we created?

It doesn’t matter how many months have passed. The minute he thinks about her, everything tumbles back—the desire, the pain, the soul-destroying love. It all ends the exact same way.
She is gone, and I am alone.

Alone and desperate
, he thinks angrily, now really squeezing and fisting the stupid cock that got him into this fucked-up situation in the first place. Now, it wants to take him there again.
Perhaps with the journalist?
Fuck that!

Shutting his eyes tightly, he feels his knuckles start to ache while his fingers try to bore a hole into the wood of the bed. His right wrist is pumping so hard that he’s surprised he hasn’t hurt himself. Yet there he is—still hard, still pissed off, and nowhere near close to being satisfied.
Fuck!

Agreeing to this whole ridiculous biography about his paintings and what took place that night was his own choice.
Get to them before they get to you.
No matter what happened, he knows that some prick would come up with a story about that night, and it would be full of shit.

So, in the end, he caved. He is the one who sought out a journalist. He is the one who wanted it to be a woman. He is the stupid fucking idiot who picked Gemma Harris because she in no way resembles Chantel Rosenberg.

Finally knowing he is getting nowhere close to a satisfying sexual release, he lets go of his cock with disgust. He whacks his palm against the headboard hard, and he sits up, letting his legs fall over the side of the bed.

Shaking his head in annoyance, he gets up and makes his way over to the window. Standing there with a raging hard erection, he’s naked, angry, and annoyed. He takes a deep breath and tries to push it all aside.

He is close to calming down when he hears some gravel crunch to his left. He turns his head in the direction where the noise came from. It takes him a moment, but then he sees her.

Gemma is standing just outside his window under one of the trees behind the chateau. Her eyes are focused on him, looking like a gazelle that has just been spotted by a hungry lion.

His anger and frustration quickly melt away. Instead, curiosity and intrigue surface as Phillipe tips his head to her, leaning forward into a mock bow.

Hope you enjoyed the show, Mademoiselle.

He watches unflinchingly as her flight instinct kicks in, forcing the gazelle to run away.

Chapter Four ~ Cravings

To say that I ran back to my room is stating it mildly.

Entering my bedroom, I turn around, leaning my back against the door. Lowering my right hand down between my thighs, I cup my aching sex. My body is vibrating with tension, both sexual and nervous.

I’m trying to wrap my mind around what I just witnessed and—well, honestly, I can’t. I know exactly what Phillipe was doing to himself as he lay there in all his magnificent naked glory, but the harsh and almost brutal way he was touching himself is what has my mind in shock.

What would make a man treat his body that way? What would cause him to almost inflict injury upon himself while still striving to reach some kind of satisfaction?

And why, oh why, did I find it so erotic to watch?

The minute my eyes peered through that open window, spotting him, my attention was riveted. When the covers were pushed aside, I was bound. My feet refused to go where my brain was telling them to—away. Away from the window. Away from what I was witnessing. Away from his seductive presence. Instead, I stayed and watched. I watched a show so sinfully depraved that I felt myself getting more aroused with each rough and wicked stroke of his hand.

Just thinking about it now has my palms tingling, and I can feel moisture dampening my panties. Making my way across the room, I enter the bathroom with one thing in mind, easing my own sexual need. Moving into the small white ceramic space, I firmly shut the door, locking it for good measure.
Wouldn’t want someone watching me, right, Gemma?
What a hypocrite I am.

Looking around the room, I walk over to the built-in shower and tub. Taking a deep breath, I quickly unsnap my black slacks and push them down along with my soaked panties.

Shaking my head, I try and remind myself that this is a healthy response. It’s natural to feel intense desire for someone so unbelievably attractive, who just displayed such unbridled self-pleasure. Right after that thought, I also admit that it isn’t exactly natural to stand, uninvited, and watch a man abuse himself, all the while finding it intensely erotic.

No matter which way I look at it, what I witnessed has now resulted in me standing in this small room with my arm against the wall and my left leg raised on the edge of the tub.

Biting my bottom lip to keep silent, I reach down between my thighs and stroke the soft flesh that is now alarmingly wet. Closing my eyes, I picture him as I just saw him, lying on his back with all his strong muscles straining. His neck was arched back, into the pillow, with one leg bent and raised as he reached down between them to grip his cock.

Moaning at the image, I press the pads of my fingers against my now swollen clit. The sensations that rock up through me are unreal. I’m so undeniably turned on. I make each stroke of my fingers a little firmer, pushing a little harder, as I swirl them through my wet juices.

Slowly, my mind starts to merge images and memories as my thoughts drift to the painting by the stairs, focusing on the woman’s nude behind. I remember the suggestive way he stood behind me, touching my shoulders, as he insisted it was natural to want to touch her.

Was it? Or was it the power of his voice and the sexual haze he created, making me question the desire I was feeling?

Sliding my fingers back and forth through my plump folds, I brace myself against the wall with my left hand and push against the tiles hard. I try to keep from moaning out loud while I continue to rock my hips.

How is he infiltrating my mind this way?
How is it that after seeing him down in his room with his naked body, pulsating and strong, that I am now standing in a bathroom with my fingers seeking entrance into my greedy body?

I have never in all my life reacted with such intensity before. I’ve been stimulated and made love to, but never have I craved the darkness that I witnessed in him. Never have I felt such raw lust from watching someone purposefully hurt himself.

Oh, but watching him in the throes of his own painful pleasure was so erotic and so darkly seductive that I am wishing he was here now, doing it in front of me all over again
.

Finally, I push my finger deep into my own tight warmth while I picture the way he looked at me the moment he caught me. Remembering that mocking bow, the insolent arched brow, and a tiny hint of a caught-you smirk, I feel my pussy clench. It spasms around my finger, and suddenly, his voice is in my head.
The again, perhaps that’s exactly where you want to be after your indecision last night on the stairs, hmm…between Chantel and me?
” That final memory—that’s enough. His deep voice and sexual suggestion penetrate me, and a climax so powerful that it almost takes my breath away washes over me and drags me under.

***

Later that night, Phillipe makes his way up to the studio. He sent a message to Gemma to meet him at 7 p.m. He isn’t sure where she has been all day, but he knows one thing. He hasn’t seen or heard from her since she fled this morning.

As he makes his way into the west turret, he is surprised to see her sitting there, waiting for him. She has her hair tied back in a loose ponytail. She’s wearing her usual black slacks and a blue blouse with a black cardigan. She looks every inch the journalist or perhaps a librarian.

He makes his way farther into the room, which is illuminated by the soft lamp behind his chair. He also notes that she has turned on the lamp by her desk. She’s trying to send him a message. She’s here to work, and what she witnessed this morning is not going to deter her.

Okay, I can play that game—for a little while.

“Evening, Gemma,” he acknowledges, finally sitting down in his chair.

He observes her as she studies him from head to toe. As usual, he is dressed in dark colors. Tonight, he’s wearing black wool slacks and a hunter green lightweight sweater. When she has finished her inspection, he can’t help the next question he asks.

“Is everything appropriately covered, Miss Harris?”

He takes great delight in the blush that creeps over her cheeks.

She lifts her pen and astutely avoids the question
and
his eyes. “I want to ask you about Chantel,” she tells him boldly.

Licking his lips, he nods at her once. “Well, I assumed that. After all, isn’t she the reason you and the rest of the world want to talk to me?” He stops to cross one leg over the other at the ankles. “Without her, I wasn’t anybody.” Looking to the open window, he mumbles, “Funny how true that still is.”

Turning his head back to face Gemma, he tilts it to the side and raises a hand in a small wave, signaling her to go ahead with her question.

“Okay then…” She crosses her legs, almost like she’s trying to quell an ache.

That makes Phillipe wonder,
What exactly has Gemma been doing all day?

“A lot of recent articles have called your relationship with Ms. Rosenberg an unhealthy one. They report that it was an unusual arrangement with you being center stage in the public eye while she was rather secluded and kept away from the public. They allude to you being too protective. Some even use the word
obsessive
.” She ceases in her spiel, her eyes finally glancing up to lock with his.

Phillipe knows she is uncomfortable.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to ease her.
If she wants to go down this rabbit hole with him, then she better be prepared for what she will find.